T. Johnson - Welcome to Braggsville

Jo-Jo was a hulk, always had been, man-sized since middle school, one of the few moons rugged enough to roll with the shines. Here now, all that was gone. With his hair tangled and dread-dirty, Reeboks caked with red clay, head dog down, Jo-Jo had vanished, and the man before him was someone Daron didn’t know. Certainly, though, everyone knew that back in high school, Jo-Jo hung like handcuffs with not only Jean, but also Trayvon, a lethal Gull linebacker known as the Brown Bruiser. (He was originally the Black Bruiser because the Gull team was known for a time as the Blackjacks — as in they would knock you the fuck out — but that wasn’t well received at away games.) Certainly everyone knew that Bruiser and Jo-Jo had been as tight, as Jo-Jo’s father liked to honk, as a Jew and his shekels. Certainly everyone knew that Jo-Jo escorted Jean’s sister to the Bruiser prom, where he’d danced shamelessly according to reports, and even posed for photos, like the generous celebrity he was for that night, an eminence apparently greater even than being first string on the football team. And certainly everyone knew that he’d lost his job over that, and more. Were they still punishing him for that? He surely would not have whipped Louis.

Lou Davis entered from the back door, dressed in forest BDUs with a red patch on his shoulder and a gavel in hand. He called the hearing to order with one outstretched arm. This collective —he stressed the word — goes back to Bragg hisself. When the Northerners came, we fought for our country. We sent men off to every conflict big and little the U.S. has been involved in. Already receiving training here, they done us proud. We’ve had Rangers, Green Berets, drill sergeants, Marine Force Recon officers, plus two you-know-whos doing you-know-what. We fended off the Indian invaders and the French trappers that ventured too far north — Or south! someone yelled — we fought off the redcoats and the Spanish, and we are still fighting for our country — this U.S. of A. — at this moment, in Afghanistan, Iraq, Somalia, Bosnia [AND PLACES WE CANNOT MENTION]. In this hearing, it is that history and honor that guides our bearing and purpose. He dropped his arm and gaveled three times. Three judges in white robes, white hoods with veils over the eyelets, and white gloves entered through the back door and were seated behind the long table. Under the dim light, they were a ghostly snowcapped range against an angry sky.

Lou read from a printout:

John-John Kelly VI, known familiarly as Jo-Jo, is hereby charged with violating the official code of conduct dated 1830, updated in 1863 and 1965, and also in 1912 and 1992, specifically Codes one-point-three, two, and ten-A, said codes respectively barring members from participating in outright violent behavior or even public pantomime of said behavior unless in self-defense, from publicly pronouncing racial epithets, or from undertaking any deed which could cast the collective in a bad light. You have also committed activities considered treasonous, including reckless endangerment, being loose of tongue, and possessing questionable moral dispositions. Like a railroad stake being driven to ground, Jo-Jo’s head ratcheted down a notch with every accusation. The audience groaned at the fall of that final hammer, groaned worse than when Jo-Jo fumbled in that game against Vickstown.

Have you seen the charges?

Jo-Jo nodded. Yes, sir.

How do you plead?

Guilty, sir. I submit to the mercy and wisdom of the tribunal.

And you waive your right to meet with a senior member to discuss your plea and statement?

Yes, sir.

Lou turned to the tribunal, who conferred for a moment before flashing a hand signal. Daron had identified three so far: palm out for Stop, palm on table for Proceed, and straight hand waving, palm to the side, for Repeat. They also wrote notes, which they shared with each other.

Lou turned back to Jo-Jo. Your plea is accepted. Before sentence is delivered, you have the right to make a statement. Would you like to make a statement?

Yes, sir. Jo-Jo swallowed loudly.

Lou nodded.

Well, sir, and Your Honors, sirs. On the question of the morning, when we reached the rise up there at Old Man Donner’s—

— Old Man Donner is not being reviewed.

Yes, sir. I—

Lou held up a hand motioning for Jo-Jo to stop. Several people turned their attention to the corner of the room, where, of all things, Lee Anne was fiddling with a small green machine that resembled a miniature cash register. When she finished inserting a new roll of paper, and began typing again, Lou nodded to Jo-Jo.

Yes, sir. Well, sir, when we reached the rise, I seen the man hanging there, like did Captain Williams, who pointed first that—

— Captain Williams is not being reviewed.

Daron was reminded of middle school English. Jo-Jo was always cut off there, too. By high school he’d stopped trying, picked the pigskin over paperwork, which now made sense to Daron, though at the time he’d thought Jo-Jo just needed to try harder.

Yes, sir. I seen the man hanging there and I thought it was a joke because I knew D’aron was back in town and—

— D’aron who?

D’aron Davenport. So, I thought it was him doing—

— Why would you think that?

— He had that wig, and we’d dressed like that in middle school. And like the Jackson Five for senior prom. He paused, waiting to see if that explanation was sufficient.

Lou nodded for him to continue.

I didn’t mean it. It all seemed in fun. I thought it was part of the show. He’s got the makeup on and all. I even thought maybe it was a test of some sort. His girl was there. She was the one holding the whip. Candy.

Miss Chelsea is not being reviewed.

Daron almost couldn’t stand under the weight of shame. Candice had never stopped insisting that the man with the tattoo had delight in his eyes. He should have corrected Jo-Jo when he’d asked about the juniors and all. And if only Candice wasn’t always so fucking zealous, getting as toothsome, hot, and gorged over her playacting as a fly locked in an outhouse.

Jo-Jo continued. And Cand— his girl was standing right there, saying, How do you like this? How do you like this? How do you like this? Almost like I was supposed to be angry, like we’d finally caught him. Now to mention it, I think she said, We finally caught him. Then she handed me the whip and I just cracked it in the air. I was only playing and didn’t try to hit him, of course, but I think it might have grazed him, or I thought so ’cause he got to fidgeting and jerking and kicking his legs about, but he wasn’t saying nothing or reaching for his throat. It was only later I learned that his hands was tied behind his back. Poor fella. Jo-Jo’s heavy shoulders heaved once. Little guy didn’t have a chance. I had done swung it only once a few times, but this other guy he looked real close, must’ve knew right away that it was that Chinese fellow; he went to town, lashing and lashing—

— Some other guy is not being reviewed.

Yes, sir. Jo-Jo cleared his throat. So, I took the whip voluntarily, yes, sir, yes, sir, I did, just planning to give D’aron a scare and get in on the joke, but then I saw it wasn’t him. I thought, I’ll be damned if it’s not a Mongoloid-looking fella. Then I knew it was a joke. I just cracked the whip once or twice, but we was just having some fun, for Methuselah’s sake. That’s my statement.

The judges handed a piece of paper to Lou, who read it aloud. So, you didn’t strike the man with the whip?

Well, no, sir. Of course not. I thought it was D’aron at first.

Daron’s stomach spiked again.

You did not whip the man.

No, sir.

Anything else?

No, sir.

Louis would have called them sexy Afghanis. But when they huddled, the judges looked like Mount Rushmore, except Daron knew that underneath the white they were Gray. They must have already made up their minds because they consulted each other and a notebook for less than a minute before motioning to Lou, who motioned Jo-Jo over. You may step to the bench. Go ahead, son. Go on.